


Left Overs

by Mercury17



Series: Left Overs [1]
Category: Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch
Genre: Angst, Don't mention the war, Gen, Pre-Series, oops I mentioned the war
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-18
Updated: 2017-08-18
Packaged: 2018-12-17 02:25:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11842020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mercury17/pseuds/Mercury17
Summary: Thomas Nightingale sits at a corner table in a cafe in Berlin in 1946.  It's past the end of the world but he's still working.





	Left Overs

Nightingale sits at a corner table in a cafe in Berlin in 1946. It's past the end of the world but he's still working. The shattered, twitching corpse of the Folly hasn't admitted it's death yet so it sends him out to work. _You were a good man to have in the field Thomas, we need you out in Berlin, we need a player in the game._ He takes a drag of the cigarette, the smoke bitter in his mouth, the ash rough on his fingers. He's had enough smoke and ash to last him several lifetimes, but everyone smokes in the war and it is still the war, at least as far as Thomas can see. 

The 20th century, not even half way through, has broken its back over the World War. And all Thomas can see of the ragged end of it left is the violence he knows will come, because the world isn't quiet yet, because violence begets more violence and they just rained down a hell of a lot of violence upon humanity. 

A man passes the window, scarf wrapped around his neck several times to make up for the holes in it, and as he passes he eyes Thomas's cigarette wistfully. But Thomas doesn't need another informant, and if he'd given into kindness once in this fallen city he'd have already given away more than he has. The informant he has already paid for enters the cafe and rubs his hands in the hope the inside will be warmer. He spots Thomas and sits. 

Thomas does not bother greeting him, letting Luis fidget nervously. The cafe owner is frowning at this newcomer, so Thomas raises a finger: one coffee. He hopes the warmth of the drink will make Luis more tractable. Luis waits until the coffee has arrived to hand over an envelope. It's bulky, and obvious to any observer, but Berlin is crawling with enough intrigue, and the cafe's patrons look numb enough, that Thomas doesn't worry overmuch as he slips it in his coat. 

"The whole area?" he asks, already knowing the answer but letting Luis twist anyway.

"No... no not exactly... But every part they are planning on, all covered,"

"Notes?"

"Yes! Notes I copied myself,"

Thomas' mouth tightens in displeasure.

Luis continues, "The notes I could not take out themselves, but the copies I made them myself, they are exact,"

Thomas nods grudgingly, he is sure they are, but Luis does not know what he is looking for and he might have missed... just enough. Luis has brought him maps and notes of the planned building work being done in the East of the city, in what is becoming more firmly the Soviet sector. The Folly are desperately reaching out, Russian wizardry is a big untapped mystery still, and they want any hint of what they may have planned and how they may use it. His masters back in Britain still think magic has a big part to play in this new forming world.

"Thank you," Thomas says and slips a pair of nylon tights across the table. Wrapped inside are 5 American 10 dollar notes. Luis makes them vanish from the table. A waitress comes to clean the table next to them. Thomas gives Luis a meaningful look and Luis begins speaking German, the inane talk of a man to his distant friend, until she leaves.

Thomas's German is competent - enough to fool an American or Soviet, and his accent good enough to fool a German in small talk. But Luis knows he is British. Luis is also not stupid, and knows that Thomas pays him too well for the small time operative Thomas is pretending to be, and Luis has questions. Thomas knows Luis has questions, he has been feeling them build inside the man for several months, he has just never had the energy to diffuse them. _Sloppy, sloppy, Thomas_ he thinks, _would have got you killed back in the 20s._ It's not the 20s though.

 

"I heard..." Luis stops, clears his throat, "This is getting too big for me - that envelope? Might be the last I manage for you. You need someone higher than me, or someone who needs chocolate or something more than me. So I wouldn't ask, but it looks like one of the last times... and even then I wouldn't ask but... this is still my city yes? I need to know who is here. They tear it down and carve it up but I need to know. You are here, but I thought the British... I thought your kind is done? "

Thomas thinks through all the excuses he could have used to not answer, the many ways he has been taught to make a man quietly disappear, but all of them require too much effort.

He settles on the stark truth. He rises before he says it, moving between Luis and the door.

"The threat to you is not coming from us," he says, "We are finished, I am finished, if there's anything like me in Berlin it's not British. We're not the threat but don't look to us for help. Just... Just enjoy the coffee." 

But Luis follows him into the street.

"George!" he calls. Thomas doesn't care, the name was never more than a handle he gave Luis: he is done with it now.

Luis dithers foot to foot in the cold street, having made the great effort to make Thomas stop seems unsure what to say. 

"George... You've always... Look I was Eastern Front right? Never saw the British. But if you guys are half as scared of the things they were. There are werewolves in Berlin," Luis turns hurriedly as if he can distance himself from what he just said.

Thomas stands frozen. He had thought after Ettersburg and what came after that all the fear had been burnt out of him, but there is terror ripping through him right now. Werewolves: German magic hunter... man? wolf? shapeshifter? Why though? Why would it be here? 

He had felt followed in this city, but then he's been followed since he made it back from Ettersberg. There is always a person in the corner, always death two steps behind him. How was he to know this time it was different.

He manages to make himself move. He knows he should be detouring in case he has a tail, but they could have been watching him for months. He needs to get back to the hotel. He would know, if he was thinking properly, he would know that he has made himself obvious. He walks faster, he looks behind to obviously, his breathing is faster. The creature stalking him knows his game is up, now or never.

The most direct route to the hotel takes Thomas through a series of what were once alley ways, now they're just paths through the ruins of this part of the city. If Thomas wasn't panicking he would realise... well there are lot of things that could have tipped him off really. But he doesn't notice. He isn't thinking.

-//-

He next becomes aware of himself 2 days later sitting on the sorry looking bed in his hotel room. His first rational thought that he processes is that he's thirsty. He walks to the wash stand to take a drink. There is dust floating in the water bowl. How long has he been back in the hotel room? His mind shies away from the answer. OK, not just now then. Just like all those months in the hospital, just like some mornings still back at the Folly: think only in the present tense. Never look behind, never look more than one step forward. 

He takes a long pull of the stale water and his headache - he had a headache? - begins to loosen it's grip. He is hungry and thinks about eating, but this stomach threatens to mutiny at the thought of food. OK, one step at a time. His right forearm hurts. His right shoulder hurts. The left side of his chest hurts. When he checks he finds in each of these locations long deep gashes that look like... claw marks?

He can tell it is several hours later again because it is evening. He gets up from where he is sitting on the floor to draw his curtains. His arm hurts when he lifts it and he feels weak and shivery. He washes the cuts on his arm, his shoulder, his ribs in the scant water he has left. His arm is hot, the gashes inflamed and yellowing around the edges. Nothing in the room can help with that.

It is too much effort to find a new shirt but he picks his jacket off the floor. There is something heavy in the inside pocket. The object is hard to pull out, it has stuck to the lining with dried blood but it's finally revealed to be a thick brown envelope. Luis gave him the envelope. Luis gave him an important envelope. Thomas should have been analysing the information inside. Why hadn't he...

It is the next morning and he wakes up in the bed. He had clearly climbed into it at some point in the night. His mouth his dry and the shivering worse. His arm is difficult to move. He needs to get back to England. He can't stay in Berlin. Not since the...

OK deep breath, no more time to waste, _think it quietly_ ... not since the... _and now whisper it_ ...werewolf... had found him. Not since he had... what had he done?

He is grasping the sides of his wash basin trying not to vomit. He looks down and realises he has already failed in this endeavour. He is sick and injured and compromised, the mission is blown and he needs to get back to London. Get more water, get dressed, clear the room. 

Get more water. Get dressed. Clear the room.

It is hard work. He dances around the specifics of what had happened but his mind keeps working anyway. Why was there a German werewolf still operating in Berlin? Hadn't they all... hadn't all of them finished? But then he is still here. He Thomas Nightingale, wizard of Great Britain, is currently and painfully pulling on his jacket in a dingy hotel in Berlin: he is still working. 

Maybe it was the last one, as he is the last one. He hopes so. He sits on a train leaving Berlin behind him. He has a new painful ball of violent memories that are going to unfurl later currently lurking in his mind, but he knows they won't bother him for now. They will give him long enough to make it back to London and he has to hope his fever gives him that long as well.

He thinks of the rest of the 20th century stretched out before him. He is not going to see the new century, hell he's not going to see the rest of this one. He hope he is the last one now.

He closes his eyes. He is finished with this work. He is a relic out of time and the train speeds him away from the shifting city.

**Author's Note:**

> This is a one-shot but I might add a follow up, maybe looking at the present day. The chapter does stand on it's own I hope though.
> 
> Also thank you lovely people who have read this far down:)


End file.
